Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (12 page)

Pru waited until the afternoon to put in another call to Lawlor Dale at Kew. In this message, she suggested he look into any letters between Banks and the Linnean Society—he could’ve written about naming plants. Might there be a mention of Mr. Menzies there?

She sighed as she pushed aside Mr. Menzies’s account of the dinner in Santiago and a copy of the first catalog listing of the monkey puzzle tree to make room for the mug of tea Saskia handed her. Her assistant leaned over, neatened the stack, and placed it at the corner of the desk.

“And so, the police let you go? You aren’t really a suspect?”

“I hope they’re finished with me,” Pru said, “but Christopher says that everyone’s a suspect to begin with. The police eliminate people as suspects the more they find out about the victim and what happened. Clues, it’s all down to clues and building a case.”

“Clues, you mean fingerprints? The murder weapon?”

“And a motive. Opportunity—the bridge on Glenogle can have its quiet moments, but I’m surprised there was absolutely no one around to see. My neighbor Mrs. Murchie is the one who found Iain. And you found her.”

“I was working in the demonstration garden all afternoon—with that Murdo.” Saskia shook her head. “He’s a useless piece of work. Since I finished near the west gate, I thought I’d walk around and down Glenogle to catch my bus. And then I saw your friend. She wasn’t thinking straight. I’m glad I was there to help her.”

Yes, Pru thought. When a clear head was called for, you could do no better than Saskia.

Pru rang Lydia when she got home—who knows what Marcus had told her—to let her know all was well. As well as could be expected. “Are you in danger?” Lydia asked. No, it had nothing to do with her. “Oh really, and what were you doing at the police station, then?” Routine questioning, Pru explained. Lydia ended their conversation with “Would you please tell Marcus that Krystal wants to know why he hasn’t emailed her in the last three minutes?” Pru laughed. She didn’t think she’d be seeing much of Marcus, she said. Perhaps Krystal could track him down herself.

After Lydia, Pru rang Jo, just in case she might see something on the news. “Where’s Christopher?” Jo asked.

“Here, he’s here with me through the weekend,” Pru reported.

“Then it’s all right.”

“Jo, I’m going to ring Alan. With Christopher here, perhaps we can both meet him.”

A moment of silence on the other end of the line, followed by Jo, slightly breathless, saying, “You’ll ring me after, won’t you? Just to let me know how it goes.”

“Of course.”

“Now,” Jo said, and Pru could hear Jo’s business voice take over, “I want you to check your email while we talk. I’ve sent you a photo of a dress.”

At the mention of “dress,” a tingle ran up Pru’s spine. “Jo, have you found a dress for me?” She set her laptop on the coffee table and logged on.

“I just want you to see…”

“Oh my God, it’s beautiful. That’s my dress? I love it.” The photo showed a woman about Pru’s age wearing a knee-length satin dress in an antique pink with three-quarter sleeves, a V-neck, and a soft shirred detail down the side.

“That is
not
your dress,” Jo said. “That is Lady Anne of Cragganmore’s dress, and you can’t have it.” She paused. “Madame Fiona designed it for her.”

“What?” Pru cried. “But, why couldn’t she design that for me? Why did I get Little Bo Peep and Lady Anne of whatever got this?” Pru pointed at the screen.

“Creative people have their own methods, Pru,” Jo said. “It’s quite common for the first design to be…not the final design. I had a long talk with Madame Fiona, and she completely understands why that first dress would not work. It’s just her way, to go a bit too far before pulling back and coming up with a more appropriate look.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I believe we should give her another chance. Think now, Pru. She knows your measurements, she knows a bit about you. I’ve been very firm with her, and she understands that you need a more sophisticated design. Sophisticated and worldly.”

When Jo explained it, it all made sense. “I did really like her,” Pru said, as she imagined Madame Fiona’s studio, little Tassie on her fern stand, and the kettle just coming to a boil. “If she can do this, well…yes, we’ll go for it.”

What a relief. Pru didn’t care for being at odds with people, and she had enjoyed her time with Madame Fiona—apart from the ill-conceived fitting. She refiled the dress under “taken care of” in her mind, and peered out the front window to watch for Christopher as she rang Alan.

“Alan, it’s Pru Parke— Jo’s friend.”

“Pru, are you all right?” His strong voice rose just above many voices in the background. Pru heard a door close, and the noise fell. “Jo told me what’s happened there,” he said.

They must be talking regularly, Pru thought with a thrill. It’s already working.

“It’s a terrible thing, yes, but I’m fine, and Christopher is here for the weekend. I thought perhaps the three of us could meet. Tomorrow?”

“Of course. Why don’t I come up to Stockbridge and we can meet for a coffee tomorrow afternoon?”

Pru pictured a cozy scene—the three of them clustered round a small table, chatting away with the hissing of the espresso machine for background noise. She mentioned the name of a shop on Deanhaugh Street, and they agreed to a time.

“You’re sure coffee is all right?” she asked Christopher for the second time the next morning, walking into the front room where he sat with her laptop, just clicking closed the browser. “You don’t mind meeting for coffee?”

“No,” he said, taking her hand. “Why would I mind coffee?” He would be a bit late—something to do with talking to Blakie—but she wanted to make this as easy as possible for Alan, and so thought it best to keep the time they’d set.

“I know we’ll like Alan—I like him already, just from the phone,” she said, reassuring Christopher or herself, she wasn’t sure which. “But we need to both agree that he should marry us. If we don’t agree, we’ll just…find someone else.” No attempt to disguise her lack of conviction in that statement.

Settling on Alan to conduct the ceremony would make Jo happy, and Pru wanted to give something back to Jo, who had done so much for her—friendship, support, a wedding dress. Oh, the dress.

“We’re trying again with Madame Fiona. Jo sent me a photo of the most beautiful dress that Madame Fiona designed for someone else. It shows what she’s capable of,” Pru said. “If she can do it for Lady Anne of Cragganmore, she can do it for me.”

When she left for work, Christopher was in deep discussion on the phone—something about forensics, SOCO, door-to-door, and the discovery of a gun in a rubbish bin. When Pru heard the bit about the gun, she knew it wasn’t Iain’s case, and breathed a sigh of relief.

She caught up with Mrs. Murchie—for a woman in her seventies, she could really move—just before the bridge on Glenogle, and the two of them continued walking together, neither looking across the road to where the police tape had been removed. As they rounded the sharp bend onto Arboretum Drive, Pru caught sight of Murdo far ahead, turning the next corner.

She spent most of the morning sifting through stacks of papers, hoping something would leap out at her and say, “Look here! This proves that the journal is real.” Or fake. She rang Lawlor Dale, leaving yet another message. As much as she admired Mr. Menzies, his role as surgeon/botanist, and his journey on the
Discovery
, she just wasn’t that into him at the moment. Lunch came as a relief.

“Can you think of anyone you know in Texas who might want to intervene on your behalf?” Christopher asked.

“Is this back to the phone call someone made to get me released? Has Inspector Blakie said something else?” They ate at her desk. Sandwiches now half-finished, Pru got up to make tea.

Christopher shook his head. “I’ve asked, but he won’t give me any more. I get the idea that the message was passed on to him—perhaps from headquarters—and he might not even know where it started. But he’s not happy about it—no officer in charge of an investigation likes to be told what to do.”

“Did you try distracting him by talking about parsnips?” she asked, rummaging around on the tea tray. She poured the milk and handed him a mug.

“No one from your garden in Dallas might think he has enough influence to put in a good word?”

“A Texan who thinks he can boss people around? How long a list would that be? And if someone was trying to put in a good word, it sounds as if it backfired.” She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone who would—or could—want to charge in and try to save me.” She smiled. “No one from Texas, at any rate.”

Pru left the garden early, off to meet Alan for coffee as if they were going on a three-way blind date.

Alan was waiting for her on the pavement outside the coffee shop. She knew it was he, although she’d never seen a photo. His eyes scanned the passersby and he held his phone in his hand, glancing down at it occasionally. Pru hesitated at the corner across the road to get a good look. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders—he could’ve played football when he was younger. American football, that is. Jo would barely come up to his elbow. He wore denims and work boots, and he had a good head of chestnut hair, but she could see gray at the temples from where she stood. His eyes landed on her and his face lit up.

Pru crossed the road. “Hello, Alan,” she said.

“There you are now. I knew it was you,” he said, holding out his phone and smiling to reveal deep dimples. “Jo sent this.” He had a photo showing Pru, in a pink tissue-paper crown with pink nose to match, holding up a glass of wine in a toast. A memory of her first Christmas in London.

“Shall we go in?” Pru asked. She went up to the counter to get their coffees, and while she waited, turned back to study Alan’s face as he looked at his phone. He had firm features and a starburst of smile lines around his hazel eyes. He was, perhaps, ten years older than Pru—about the same age as Jo.

“It’s very good to meet you, Alan,” Pru said when she returned with their drinks. “I hope I’m not taking you away from work.”

“Not at all,” he said. “They’ll be opening the doors about now—every day at half past three.”

“It’s a great service, the shelter,” Pru said.

“A bed for the night, a hot meal, and a shower,” Alan said with a shrug. “It’s surprising what luxury that is for some. These men are mostly past finding work or a permanent home, but we can at least offer them a safe place for the night.”

“Jo told me a little about what you do at the shelter—living here in Edinburgh, while she’s in London,” Pru said. Was that too forward? She longed to hear the whole story.

Alan dipped his head, but could not hide a secret smile. His eyes shone. “Ah,” he said, “my Jo.” The smile faded. “I let her down.”

Well, here it was at last. “You mean, by coming up here to run the shelter?” she asked.

“I ran away,” he said. “I gave it all up in London. I couldn’t take it any longer.”

Pru picked up a spoon and scraped milk foam from the rim of her cup. “Was it Cordelia? Was that difficult for you?”

He chuckled. “No, it wasn’t Dele—although it’s not what a father expects, is it, to find out his daughter is in love with another woman. I didn’t think it was immoral—but I was scared for her. I wanted my daughter to have an easy life, not a hard one.” He lifted his hands. “But, look at the two of them—Dele and Lucy—they’ve lasted longer than most married couples. And now there’s wee Oliver, too.”

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” Pru asked.

“Yes, they came up right after the christening last spring.” That brought a frown to Alan’s face. “It was another christening that was my last straw. I broke—just like Jonah, I ran away. Only I ended up in Edinburgh, not inside a whale.”

“You gave up your church in London?”

His face sagged. “I didn’t have a church at the time. I was working an administrative post directly with the archbishop. There’s power for you. But I grew restless, and I began to believe that they had moved me there because I wasn’t good enough to be a priest to the people.” He shook his head. “Self-doubt, Pru—it’s a terrible thing, it eats away at you. Jo knew I was unhappy, but I wouldn’t admit it and we began to argue. When old friends asked if I would christen their grandchild, I jumped at the chance to prove myself.” His eyes clouded over.

After a few moments, Pru asked, “Did it not go well?”

Alan barked a mirthless laugh. “The doubt overwhelmed me—all at once, I realized I wasn’t good enough for one or the other. I panicked. I took off my vestments and walked out.”

Pru’s eyes widened. “You were in the middle of a service?”

“They were waiting for me in the church,” Alan whispered, his face growing red. “Mother, father, sponsors, grandparents, baby in his wee christening gown, the lot. I left. I left them all out there wondering where I was—and I started walking, not even knowing where I was going. I walked from East Finchley to King’s Cross and got on a train.”

“But Jo…” Pru wasn’t sure she wanted to ask.

He shook his head. “I was a coward.” He clenched his jaw. “Didn’t even ring her until I arrived here.”

“When she talks about you, though,” Pru said, “she isn’t upset. Surely she understood, didn’t she—that you were having a…”

“Crisis of faith,” Alan interjected. “It’s taken us a good few years, but we’re working through it. We’ve come to an understanding.” The smile returned.

“But you’ve stayed in Edinburgh?”

“I miss her, but I’ve come alive again here, working with these men. It’s restored me. Perhaps I wasn’t suited for the pulpit after all.”

And now here she was asking him to go back into the church—the very thing that had driven him out of London and away from Jo. “Alan, please don’t think that you have to officiate at the wedding—Christopher and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“I’ve come to terms with my actions, Pru,” Alan said, patting her on the hand with a smile. “I know I can step back into the pulpit for this one occasion. I want to do this for you—and for Jo. I want her to know that waiting all these years was worth it. I’m ready. It’ll be a joy—you and Christopher just say the word.”

Pru offered him a weak smile, and he beamed at her. Alan’s good spirits may have been restored, but there ensued a struggle in Pru’s mind. How could she force Alan into an action that caused his first breakdown—that is, crisis of faith—eager though he seemed to be. Yet, in her phone conversations with Jo, Pru could hear the hope in her friend’s voice. Pru believed Jo saw a chance for their marriage. How could Pru deny them that?

She needed to talk with Christopher, go over Alan’s story before…

“Sorry I’m late,” Christopher said, appearing at the table. He leaned over and gave Pru a kiss on the cheek.

Pru grabbed his hand and held tight. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. She introduced the two men. Alan and Christopher squabbled lightly over who would get the next round of coffees, until Christopher relented and Alan went up to the counter to order.

“I think it’s going to be fine,” Pru, unaccountably out of breath, said to Christopher. “He’s told me what happened in London—why he ended up here. It was a christening that he was to perform, you see—it was all too much for him and he sort of had a…he walked out. Of the christening.”

“He what?” Christopher’s eyebrows raised.

“But he’s over that now,” she whispered. “Really—Alan’s so happy to do this and you know, although it may not seem like it, I’m sure he’s quite capable.”

Alan returned with the coffees before Pru could make any more excuses for him.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “Alan says that the shelter opens every afternoon, so it’s good he could meet us,” Pru said, her words tumbling out too quickly. “How many men do you house each night?” She took a sip of her coffee. Perhaps she shouldn’t have ordered a second flat white—how many shots of espresso was that?

“We can take thirty men a night. It isn’t much—certainly isn’t enough—but it’s all we can manage.”

“Where does your support come from?” Christopher asked, and as Alan explained their patchwork of funding, Pru relaxed. This was going well, she thought. Yes, it would work out. She wondered what sort of vestments Alan would wear for the ceremony. She hadn’t asked him about his church affiliation—perhaps they could swing the conversation around to…

“It must’ve been quite a break for you to start this work after being in the church,” Christopher said. Pru’s nerves jumped to high alert.

She saw Alan’s chest begin to rise and fall rapidly. “It wasn’t the most…responsible act, leaving London,” he said, his eyes darting around the table. “I’ve regretted what I did—not that I don’t believe in our work here, but I’ve come to realize that I need to own up to…” His voice drifted off.

“Alan says that it’s sort of like Jonah running away and being swallowed by the whale,” Pru said, jumping once more into the breach. “How did Jonah get out of the whale, Alan? Didn’t he start a fire?”

“Ah no, Pru,” Alan said with a small smile. “That was Pinocchio.”

“Oh, right.”
Too much of her childhood spent with Walt Disney and not enough in Sunday school,
Pru thought. Great, now she would have “When You Wish Upon a Star” playing on a loop in her head.

The conversation moved off in another direction. Pru saw it as a volleyball they each tried to keep aloft—tapping it into the air one way and then another, but never quite hitting on the point of it all. The question she longed to ask—Alan, will you marry us?—hovered on the tip of her tongue. And all at once, it seemed, they were standing back out on the pavement saying goodbye.

The men shook hands and said how good it was to meet, and Pru kissed Alan’s cheek. “We’ll be in touch,” she said.

They watched Alan’s retreating figure as his long strides took him up the hill and around the corner to the Royal Circus. Pru looked at Christopher, smiled, and linked her arm through his. They walked in silence, and it was only when they were back at her flat, coats hung in the hall and both of them standing in the kitchen, that she opened her mouth. Christopher beat her to it.

“It’s admirable, the work he does. Not everyone could do it.”

Pru nodded as she reached into the cupboard for wineglasses. “You can tell he really cares about the shelter.”

Christopher surveyed the row of wine bottles on the counter before picking one out. He rummaged in a drawer and found the corkscrew. “And he’s comfortable with his life the way it is—at least it seems so.” He took the glasses from her and carried them and the bottle to the front room. Pru stood still for a moment before following.

“Are you saying that Alan shouldn’t conduct our wedding ceremony?”

Christopher sat on the sofa, but Pru remained standing until he took her hand and gave a tug. She sat, and he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “No, I’m not saying that he shouldn’t—but what if that’s what he wants to say to us?”

“But he’s already said that he’s ready—he told me he wanted to do this for us. And for Jo, too.” She took the glass he offered and held it by the stem, perching it on her knee. Her shaky hand caused the surface of the liquid to ripple, so instead she cupped the glass in her palms.

“I can see that he wants to please us—to please Jo,” Christopher said and took a drink. “But ready? I don’t think he’s anywhere near ready.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. They were supposed to agree that Alan was the perfect choice, and Alan would marry them and then Alan and Jo would reunite. That was the story in Pru’s head, and she was disinclined to accept any rewrites.

“Well, he was nervous, of course—talking about what he did all those years ago. It wasn’t his most shining moment. But he’s come to terms with that.” Pru took a sip of wine and stared off into space. She thought about how calm and engaged Alan was when he talked about the shelter, and how flustered he became when the subject of his ministry came up.

“What if it happens again?” Christopher asked and watched her as the realization dawned.

“You think that Alan would walk out on our wedding?” she asked, her voice bouncing off the walls of the small room. “He would never do that to us.”

“If he felt as if the world were closing in on him again, he may believe he has no other option. It would ruin our wedding day—but what would it do to him?”

She waited for a second before answering to be sure she could make it to the end of the sentence. “I don’t believe he would do that. If he says that he will marry us, then he will.” She stood up and set her wineglass down on the table. Trying to keep the quaver out of her voice, she said, “But I understand that you have reservations, and so we shouldn’t ask him to do it if we can’t both agree. I’ll tell him we’ve decided to choose someone…to find another…oh, I’ll think of something to say. And,” she said, raising her chin, “I’ll explain it to Jo.”

She walked out and down the hall before the tears began. She hated disagreements—far better to just…but some unseen force stopped her dead in her tracks. Taking a deep breath, she walked back into the front room, meeting Christopher who had jumped up to follow her.

“Pru—” he began.

“No, I won’t tell him that. I believe that he can do this—that he wants to do it and that he will do it. I have faith in Alan, and I’m asking you to trust me on this.” She crossed and then uncrossed her arms.

Christopher gave her a long look. Times like these she wished she could hear his thought process. He took her hands in his and stepped close.

“All right,” he said.

“All right?”

He nodded. “Yes, all right. We will ask Alan to marry us.”

A warm rush of gratitude overcame her. “I know it’ll be fine—you’ll see,” she said. She rested her arms on his shoulders and took a couple of slow breaths. “You are helpless against my charms, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, giving her waist a squeeze. “I’m afraid I am.”

They looked at each other a moment. “This is the first actual decision I’ve made about our wedding,” she said.

“That isn’t true,” Christopher said as they sat down and took up their wine. “You’ve asked Simon to give you away, haven’t you?”

Pru smiled at the memory. She had chatted with her brother online, and then popped the question. “He was shocked. And then he was a bit choked up,” she said, becoming choked up herself. “But he seemed quite pleased and said it would be an honor.” Her chin quivered, and Christopher kissed her cheek where a tear leaked down. “And Graham?” she asked. Christopher had waited until his son, Graham, had returned from a soil engineering assignment in Nepal before asking him to be best man.

“Graham said he’d be very pleased to. He said he knew this would happen from the moment he met you—he likes you, you know. And he asked how old Simon’s daughters are.” Pru laughed and wiped a few more tears away.